A Night at the Opera
by Fiddler55
Summary: Can Steve attend just one fancydress fundraiser with his father and stay out of trouble?
1. You Can Dress Him Up

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, and Cheryl Banks do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other individuals are the product of my own unbridled imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally by accident.

This fic was originally written as a virtual season episode, just for fun.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Steve Sloan groused as he fastened the silver buttons on his brocade vest, squirming broad shoulders under the heavy linen shirt as he did so.

Mark Sloan gave his son a critical glance and reached over to readjust the black "gambler's" tie. "Come on, Steve. You mean to tell me you don't enjoy receiving appreciative looks from beautiful young women hoping to attract the attention of their very own version of Wyatt Earp?" Ignoring the rude noise which was his son's response, he continued, "Besides, it's for a good cause, and we get a brand new concert hall/opera house in the process. How can you possibly object to that?"

Steve sighed. "Because every time I go to one of these dress-up functions of yours, costume or otherwise, dead bodies show up. I wouldn't mind admiring glances if I didn't end up having to work." He shrugged on the long black broadcloth frock coat, reached for his hat, and paused to return his father's look with interest. "Sherlock Holmes? I thought we had to be people who actually existed."

"Close, but no cigar," Mark replied smugly. "Arthur Conan Doyle, my boy." He collected the deerstalker hat and caped overcoat waiting on a chair and motioned his son towards the door. "We don't want to keep the others waiting. Don't worry; no one's going to die, and nothing's going to happen except that we're all going to have a good time."

"Hmmpfh," Steve grunted, with understandable skepticism, given his father's existing track record, not even mollified as Amanda came in dressed in Edwardian silks and flounces. The sight of Cheryl coming through the door distracted him, however; she was dressed as the infamous Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, in full nineteenth century finery. He swept off his hat, bowed and offered her his arm, pausing only to give Jesse a mock-threatening look as the latter snickered.

Jesse placed one hand on the dueling pistol stuck in his belt and swept magnificent black ringlets away from his face. "You challenge Henry Morgan, the bane of the Spanish Main?" He turned to Queen Elizabeth, also known as Gillian Tolliver, who was standing next to him, suppressing a smile in a failing attempt to look regal. "Would your Majesty excuse me while I teach this ruffian some manners?"

Gillian fought an unsuccessful battle with hilarity and giggled. "Jesse, I think Steve bows very nicely. How about you?"

Her suitor promptly swept off his own headgear, managing miraculously to keep the wig from sliding, and saluted her appropriately, the effect marred only by the broad grin on his face.

"Children," Mark interjected, laughing, "we'd better get started or we'll miss the party." He offered Amanda his arm. "Miss Langtry, will you join me? Our limousine is waiting."

As they trooped out, Steve made a last-ditch effort to derail his father. "I'm telling you now, Dad -- just one body turns up, and I'm giving these things up for good."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Be thankful I'm not going as Houdini -- I could make someone disappear."

His son shuddered theatrically. "Pass on that one too, Dad. Let's try to have an uneventful evening, okay?"

Glancing at the crowd some minutes later, Steve wondered sourly whether any missing bodies, or dead ones for that matter, would even be noticed. The gala opening for the musical arts center, with the eighteenth-century inspired opera house as the showpiece, was apparently the place to be that night. A bewildering array of costumes, masks and glitter moved about the building as what appeared to be Los Angeles' entire charitable elite mingled happily.

His reverie was rudely interrupted as Cheryl tapped his arm, not particularly gently, with her fan and affected a Creole accent. "M'sieu Earp, I wish to dance. And it is unwise to displease Marie, non?"

"Heaven forfend," Steve replied fervently. "Madame Laveau, may I have the honor?"

His father watched them go complacently. "They make a handsome couple, don't they?"

Amanda nodded, then added wickedly. "And they're dancing."

Her emphasis on the last word did not go unheeded. Mark bowed and invited her to join him for a turn or two around the dance floor, and they moved off into the crowd.

"Not a bad party, is it, son?"

Steve turned from watching the dancers as he and Cheryl enjoyed some refreshments. "No bodies yet, at least. I suppose I should be relieved, Dad."

All three laughed, then Cheryl asked curiously, "Where's Amanda?"

"Powder room," Mark answered. He started to say something else, but stopped.

Steve noticed. "What is it, Dad?"

Mark smoothed his face out hastily. "Nothing, son," he replied, a little too innocently.

Steve wasn't fooled. "Something's up."

His father started to shake his head, then gave up as Steve's expression hardened. "Okay. I'm sure it's nothing -- but she's been gone for a while."

"Couldn't she have stopped to talk to someone?" Cheryl asked. "After all, she does know a lot of the people here."

Mark looked doubtful. "I could have sworn she said she was starving, and was going to come right this way."

Cheryl took pity on him. "I'll go check the powder rooms, just in case," she offered.

Steve smiled down at her. "Don't be long," he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

She laughed, and blew him a kiss. "You are very amusing, M'sieu Earp," she declared, scooting off before he could refute her claim.

Grinning himself, Mark watched her go, then turned to his son, who was staring after her with an interestingly besotted expression. "Come on, Romeo Earp, let's get something else to drink."

They had been waiting for about five minutes, and Mark was starting to get anxious once again, when the lights in the enormous chandeliers flickered twice and abruptly went out. Chaos ensued for a few minutes as voices clamored, then ended just as rapidly as the lights came back on and excited partygoers calmed. Looking around, Steve spotted Cheryl returning, heading for them as quickly as she could given the limitations of her full skirts. She was holding something in one hand, and she looked perturbed. "This was in the powder room. It's Amanda's purse."

Mark looked grave. "She wouldn't have just left it. Something's wrong."

Steve made a sound of exasperation. "Dad -- you two didn't just decide to pull my leg --?"

"What kind of crazy --" Mark started angrily, breaking off as he guiltily remembered discussing just such a potential prank with Amanda earlier. "Honest, Steve. This wasn't our idea. This is serious."

Steve sighed. "All right. We'll organize a search."

Organize a search, Steve thought with considerable irritation, as he watched the light from his flashlight dance across dark grey walls. Organize was supposed to be the operative word, but half of the nearest contingent of police had been called out on a major crisis on the other side of the precinct. Consequently, he had not only had to enlist some volunteers from the attendees, but here he was, dressed to the nines, mucking around in one of the surprising multitude of passageways in the opera house. And apparently underneath as well, he thought, revising his initial impression as he came upon a long, curving stairway heading down to some unknown depth. Had this all been built as part of the new center, he wondered, or had there been an original structure, and how old would it have been?

His musing was interrupted by something flickering to his right. He reached automatically for his gun, and swore as he remembered he had opted for his antique Colts to coordinate with his costume. He'd just have to get close enough to ensure putting a large hole in whomever it was. "LAPD. Show yourself," he commanded, sweeping his flashlight across the area in question.

It came bursting out at him suddenly, catching him off guard; he had a brief glimpse of flying black cloak, gloved hands, and an impossibly white face -- a mask? -- as he stepped back involuntarily. His descending foot met empty air before realization sank in, and he tried to correct his misstep, turning almost in mid-air. A hard shove from his assailant, however, was enough to knock him further off balance, and he fell, rolling the length of the staircase, to subside in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

He experienced a strange feeling of weightlessness for a time; his eyes refused to cooperate, and the blurry images passing by made no sense, leaving him disoriented and confused. At one point, he suspected he was hanging upside down, but the throbbing in his head and ringing in his ears made it impossible for him to be sure, and he finally gave up, allowing the lurking greyness to take over. This not too-uncomfortable half-life came to an abrupt end, however, when he was dumped unceremoniously onto a hard, stone surface. He lost consciousness as his already abused head made contact with it, thereby failing to notice the other, also unconscious, occupant of the room.

Ironically, it was his aching head which brought him back. Steve groaned involuntarily as attempted movement sent small tremors of misery through his temples, and grabbed for them automatically. Or thought he did; startled investigation showed that his arms were stretched above his head, his wrists secured to chains fastened to the wall. Without thinking, revolted by his discovery, he seized the chains above his hands and yanked, setting his feet firmly, and collapsed in shock as new, vicious pain shrieked through his right ankle.

The rattling chains and Steve's bitten-off yelp disturbed the reverie of the woman huddled in the corner, and she sat up, staring as the identity of her new roommate registered. "Steve! Are you hurt?"

Silly question, he thought fuzzily, until he recognized the voice and forced his eyes open. "Amanda? Are you all right? What happened?" Then, his own voice getting stronger as the world stopped spinning, he demanded, "What the hell's going on here? Why am I chained to the wall like someone's bad imitation of a Vincent Price movie?"

"I don't know."

She hadn't moved from where she sat, and the peculiarity of this sank in as the pain continued to rage through his ankle. "Amanda -- I hate to sound self-absorbed, but, if you're okay, I think my ankle's broken."

Fury crossed her face, and she uttered a very unladylike word. "I can't move more than a foot in any direction." She lifted her long skirt high enough for him to see the shackle around her own ankle.

"Matching set?" he wondered crazily, tugging experimentally at his own. "Who is this lunatic?" For the first time, he took note of the furnishings of the chamber: candles everywhere, draperies, elegant furniture, at least on Amanda's side of the room, and -- "A piano? What the hell --?"

"He keeps calling me Christine," Amanda said grumpily.

Steve stared at her. "And that means?"

"And asking me to sing."

The penny dropped, and he started to laugh in spite of himself. "Don't tell me -- this nutcase thinks he's the Phantom of the Opera?"


	2. But You Can't Take Him Anywhere

"Derision is what I would expect from such as you, Raoul," a new voice said unexpectedly. It was moderately deep, but raspy, sounding almost dusty, as if it went unused for long periods of time. The cloaked figure Steve vaguely remembered seeing before he fell stepped out of the shadows, and he stared disbelievingly at the inhumanly perfect three-quarter mask, anger glittering in the eye which could be seen. It was obviously capable of attempted murder, if his ankle and aching torso were any proof. But -- "Who's Raoul?" he asked innocently, trying not to snigger.

The figure growled something inarticulate and started towards him, but was distracted by Amanda. "Please -- my friend is hurt. You must let me see to him."

He, for the voice unquestionably belonged to a man, stopped and stared at her for a long minute, as if considering her request, then turned back towards the man sitting on the floor. "What is it to me if this one suffers any discomfort?" the mysterious individual inquired, prodding one outstretched leg with his walking stick.

Steve tried not to flinch as the cane hovered dangerously close to his injured foot. "Maybe if you tell us what you want," he offered, "we can help you -- uh, I'm afraid we haven't been introduced."

The more visible eye blazed briefly. "You may address me as -- Eric."

Sheesh. More Phantom silliness. First Christine, then Raoul, now this. "But," Steve said carefully, "surely you had another name at one time?"

The cane whipped down suddenly, striking the bad ankle viciously, and Steve barely suppressed a yelp. "That person no longer exists," their host gritted.

Amanda decided to intervene before the testosterone levels rose any higher. "Eric -- please tell us what you want. I'm sure we can find a way to resolve whatever it is --"

Now the mask turned its remote gaze to her. "I want you to sing, Christine."

Amanda was starting to lose patience. "I'm a doctor, not a singer." She ignored the snicker from the other side of the room as the line registered. "And my name isn't Christine. It's Amanda."

He ignored her, and gestured towards his other prisoner. "And I want Raoul to die -- along with all the others."

Ignoring the first part of the statement, Steve focused on the rest. "What others?" Eric hesitated, and Steve pushed. "Come on, Eric. What's the point of concocting a grandiose scheme for revenge if you can't share it with anyone first?" Surreptitiously, he inched his body closer to the wall, so he could lean back against it and relieve some of the tension in his arm muscles, which conveniently moved his ankle out of the immediate range of the walking stick.

The cloaked figure considered, then nodded slowly. "In that I suppose you are correct, Raoul."

Steve bit back the automatic response, although he was starting to get tired of the name. "So --?"

"The land on which this building sits," the other man said, waving an arm expansively, "once belonged to my family." He hooked one of the chairs over with his cane and settled himself in it. "The name of the man I was once is not important. Ironically, it was my family's plan, no, dream, to build a grand opera house on this very spot, using the natural caves and passages as part of the architecture. My father dreamed of staging "Lohengrin" using the underground river."

Steve and Amanda exchanged a look. "Somehow," Amanda said slowly, "I get the impression the local safety inspectors weren't too crazy about that idea."

The mask nodded. "They refused to approve the plans, and continued to do so despite my father and grandfather's attempts to alter them to pass inspection and still retain the beauty of the original design."

Steve nodded. "I take it they weren't particularly polite about it, either."

Eric's visible eye swung towards him. "No. They called my father a lunatic, and my grandfather worse. My grandfather died of a broken heart, and my father, a brilliant architect, never attempted to design any building again." He shook his fists at the ceiling. "So this one will not survive!"

This didn't sound good. "What do you mean?" Steve asked cautiously.

Distracted, the other man glanced back down at him, annoyance at the question temporarily altering his affected intonation. "I'm going to blow it up, you moron."

Here they went again, Amanda thought, two dogs circling stiff-legged, glaring at each other. "Uh -- Eric? Don't you want people to know why you're blowing it up?" He turned and looked at her, and she rushed on. "I mean, does anyone know you're here? Or that you've got a bomb? Or why you've got a bomb?"

No response. This was a good sign, Steve thought, following Amanda's lead. "Look, Eric. What's the point of sending this place sky-high if no one knows why, or who you are? You need some publicity, the media, get them involved."

"And tell them what?" Eric asked sarcastically. "That a madman in a mask is going to blow up the opera house for the sake of family honor?"

"Well, yes," Amanda replied. "While it may not be saying much for the media, that kind of story is just the sort of thing which will appeal to them."

Eric grunted. "Hmmpfh. You mean people like the Enquirer." But he started to tap his cane on his booted foot thoughtfully. "I suppose it would be that many more people who get blown up." He stood up and paced for a couple of minutes. "Just how do you propose I contact them? Don't expect me to let either one of you go."

Steve soundlessly released the breath he had been holding. The fish was hooked, now to play him properly. "My cell phone's in my jacket pocket. If you let me talk to my father upstairs, he'll be able to get the people you want -- come on, Eric, do you or do you not want the world to know what happened?"

Eric started to move in his direction, and jumped as something streaked across his path. The sudden movement unbalanced a mirror leaning against another chair, and it fell, cracking as it hit the stone floor. He gasped in horror, and, as Steve watched with interest, the fingers of his right hand moved in an intricate pattern as the masked man attempted to avert the supposed bad luck emanating from the broken glass. Steve filed the episode away for future reference, and spoke up encouragingly.

"Eric, don't worry about the mirror. My cell phone's in my pocket. You take it out, press star 2, and my father should answer. Let me talk to him, and we'll get you your press."

The other man seemed to gather his senses, and came over to rummage through Steve's jacket, not particularly gently. He located the phone and pulled it out, following Steve's instructions, then held it to Steve's head just above the piece of glass he had trained on Steve's neck. "Any funny business, and I use this," he growled.

"No problem," Steve said hurriedly, then, "Dad? It's me. I found Amanda. We're all right. Listen, Dad -- no, we're fine. Listen. We have a situation down here, and we're going to need media coverage. Right. Immediately. And tell Cheryl that Marie's skills are going to be needed."

Across the room, Amanda stared at him. What the devil was he babbling about -- and then she put two and two together and came up with four. Of course. Eric was obviously severely superstitious; just how would he deal with the apparently living embodiment of the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans? Steve obviously needed a distraction, and it looked like he was going to get it. She decided to add a little fuel to the fire.

"Eric -- don't tell me you're bothered by a broken mirror."

He swung around so quickly that he smacked Steve in the chin with the cell phone; Steve rolled his eyes expressively at his companion in captivity but held his peace. "Bad luck is bad luck, Christine. The bravest of men can be undone by one simple piece, and countries have fallen for less."

Good grief, Steve thought. The lunatic was going to start expounding again. His head started to hurt. "Uh, Eric -- what's with the mask, anyway? Is that for show, or are you really ugly?"

He had forgotten about the cane, which whacked down on his bad leg with a crack. But Eric's attention was distracted, which had been the idea. "No. And no. I was burned trying to save my grandfather when he set the house on fire after falling into a gin-soaked stupor while smoking."

"They have procedures to take care of that sort of thing, you know," Amanda said gently. "You don't have to be scarred."

He regarded her silently for a moment, then shook his head. "If I had met you years ago -- but not now. It doesn't matter now. As soon as my story is told -- this building will leap for the stars, and all within will die."

Here we go again, Steve thought in disgust. Why do I have to get stuck dealing with madmen with an unfortunate flair for the melodramatic? Luckily, he was saved from further contemplation of this dilemma by his phone ringing. "Uh, Eric, you need to answer the phone."

The cloaked man picked up the offending gadget and flipped it open. "Yes. No, your son is otherwise engaged." A pause, and a surprised laugh. "No, he is still alive. He simply is unable to come to the telephone."

On the other end, Mark said sharply, "I want assurances that he's all right, or your demands will not be met. Let me talk to my son."

"Oh, all right," Eric said grumpily. He returned to Steve's side, phone and piece of glass returned to their former locations. Steve rolled his eyes at Amanda and took a deep breath. "Dad? I'm fine. Really. Is the crew ready? And Cheryl? Okay. You need to decide with the Phantom here whether he's going to give you directions or come and lead a guided tour. Yes. I'm fine, Dad. Bye."

He gave the other man an expressive look. "Hadn't occurred to you, had it? Or are you going to leave them a trail of bread crumbs?"

"It doesn't matter, son," came Mark's voice unexpectedly. "We triangulated from your signal earlier." He eased into the room, carefully arranging his face to keep the shock at his son's condition from showing. Behind him trooped a comforting phalanx of reporters, camera crew and plainclothes officers, with Cheryl bringing up the rear. She sent a quick smile in Steve's direction before concealing herself behind a drape to wait for the proper moment.

Eric watched the newcomers enter with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, still not totally persuaded of the wisdom of the plan. But, still -- maybe his family would not be vindicated, but at least its story would be told. He moved next to Amanda, still clutching the piece of glass, and proceeded to tell the group the same sad tale he had related earlier. One female reporter in particular seemed to be especially sympathetic, and he found himself playing to her with growing enthusiasm. Finally, after the initial flurry of questions tapered off, Steve interposed, "Ladies and gentlemen, there's one thing our miserable masked marauder here has failed to mention. He's allegedly set a bomb to explode somewhere in this building."

His comment had the desired effect; Eric abandoned Amanda and headed in his direction purposefully. "If you think you're going to trick me into revealing the location in order to refute your implication that I'm lying, you're wrong. It's here, it's set and it will go off." He placed the tip of his cane on Steve's bad ankle and pressed down, firmly and not too gently, watching avidly as the other man's face muscles tightened. "These people will all die. You will die, Raoul. And, if she is unwilling to sing for me, so will Christine."

Hoping she was picking up properly on what Steve was trying to do, Amanda took a deep breath and said, "Very well, Eric. I'll sing for you." She closed her eyes, trying to convince herself she was alone, and began softly to sing.

Just a little closer, was all he needed. With a superhuman effort, Steve managed to drag himself more or less upright by pulling on the chains, and gauged the distance between himself and his captor. Just a little closer, he thought, then Cheryl can go into her act. He leaned forward a little, and stage-whispered, "Does making her sing make you feel like more of a man, Eric?"

The cloak whipped around, and the visible eye glared red fury as Eric took a step forward, then thought better of getting too near, unaware that he might already be within range if his victim were sufficiently determined to attack him. He turned back towards the center of the room, only to freeze in shock at the apparition which had suddenly appeared from behind the draperies.

"You dare to detain the tres bon ami of Queen Marie?" Cheryl accused, deliberately thickening her accent and waving her hands before her in an ominous sinuous pattern. "You will release my suitor immediately, m'sieu of the mask, or you will answer to me and the zombies who serve me."

Steve laughed nastily. "You're in for it now, Eric buddy. You don't like broken mirrors; how do you feel about a little voodoo?"

The masked man swung to stare at him, then back towards Cheryl, who smiled sweetly, removed a small bag from her sleeve, dipped her fingers into it, and flicked them at him. He flinched, retreated by sheer reflex, and let out a yell of panic as strong hands grabbed him from behind.

Steve laughed again. "When I'm finished with you, Eric, you're going to wish I had been just a zombie." He held the squirming man in place until a police officer had read his rights and secured the prisoner, then rubbed sore wrists as Mark appropriated the key and released him. "Dad -- I'm going to need that cane for the time being."

Mark finished freeing Amanda and returned to his son, with cane and with eyebrows raised. "I thought you said you weren't hurt."

Steve shook his head. "No, I said I was all right. I've got a broken ankle -- but that can wait. Give me a hand, will you?" Puzzled, his father complied, helping his injured son limp over to the prisoner.

"All right, Eric, either you tell me where the bomb is and how to defuse it, or I turn Madame Laveau loose on you. You look like you could use a little gris-gris."

Fortunately for Steve's less pure impulses, their former captor was already sufficiently terrified. With no additional urging, he babbled out all of the needed information, his formerly profound tones now approaching thready hysteria. The bomb was safely dismantled, Eric was transferred to the custody of the local jail, and a protesting Steve was removed to Community General to have his ankle set and put in a walking cast.

Sitting in the wheelchair as he waited for his father to take him home, Steve glanced down at his disheveled costume ruefully. His right boot had had to be cut off the swollen foot, and it had been necessary for the right pant leg to suffer as well. His father was getting the bill for this one, he thought, and this was going to be the last of the fancy parties for him. No more, done deal. He said so aloud without thinking, and jumped as a voice spoke.

"What's a done deal?"

He looked up to see Cheryl smiling down at him. She was still wearing her costume, and he marveled again at the effect of the antebellum clothing on her figure. Unfortunately, that intriguing train of thought was interrupted as his father came in, Amanda by his side.

"What did you find out, Cheryl?"

She smiled at father and son affectionately. "Eric's real name is Andrew Maysworth. His story pretty much checks out, except he forgot to mention that both he and his father had done time for arson. Remember the arts center which the city started to build on that spot about fifteen years ago?"

Mark nodded. "Of course. It wasn't very far along, but I remember they thought arson was involved. Never found the perpetrators, though."

"Until now," Steve added. "So much for the Phantom of the Opera."

His father nodded again, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "You know, though, if I'd known it only took a mask and a cloak --"

Steve stared at him. "What are you talking about, Dad?"

"Well," his father said gleefully, "I've been trying to get Amanda to sing for years."

The others exchanged mystified looks. "And?"

The famous Sloan grin was now firmly in evidence. "I guess she thought the ears were covered along with the face." He pretended to cower as Amanda raised a mock-threatening fist. "I promise I'll never importune you to sing for a charity function again, Amanda!"

"While you're promising things," his son added dryly, "you might want to include never making me go to one of these dos either."

Mark pretended to be hurt. "But, Steve, there weren't any bodies. And Amanda didn't really vanish. You found her, in a manner of speaking."

"That's not what I meant, Dad. You always try to talk me into things..." his voice trailed off as his father began to push the wheelchair down the hall, leaving Cheryl and Amanda to watch them go, bickering happily with each other.

"I mean it, Dad. Next time I'll just give you a check. I can't even go as someone else without mayhem finding me."

"But, son --"

"No, Dad. Absolutely, positively, no. N. O. I don't care what --"

The two women glanced at each other and shrugged. "Gotta love 'em," Amanda commented, and they followed the two, laughing as faint bits and pieces of contentious commentary wafted back; in or out of costume, the Sloan men were themselves again!


End file.
